11: A broken Rule

Lucien’s POV

It had been a week since she came. A slow, strange week. One where the palace felt colder in places it used to burn, and warmer in corners I never gave a second glance. She hadn’t said much since the night of the contract. But I saw her.

In the hallways. On the balcony, once, when the wind tried to tangle her hair. At breakfast when she sat quietly, eyes down, fingers stiff. She was trying to disappear and yet somehow, she never left my mind.

The Council Room was dim today. The morning sun couldn’t quite cut through the long shadows of the chamber, and even the torches lining the stone walls flickered like they didn’t want to stay lit.

Twelve seats. Twelve men. All old and wise enough to know when to keep their mouths shut. Most of them anyway.

I stood at the head of the long table, hands behind my back, watching them from where they sat in rows, each one dressed in black or dark grey, their cloaks heavy with power and arrogance.

My voice was calm when I spoke.

“There will be a banquet.”

They didn’t flinch. Not yet.

I kept going, my words firm, steady.

“In her honour.”

That was when it happened.

Like a cold drop of rain down the back, I saw it. The ripple. Elders glanced at each other. One raised a brow. Another shifted in his seat like it was suddenly too tight. A few nodded—not because they agreed, but because they didn’t want to be the first to speak against it. Cowards wrapped in dignity. That’s all they were.

Except Hadrek.

He didn’t nod.

He didn’t even pretend.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest like he had every right to look bored. Then he smirked. Not the kind that passed as polite. No. This one had venom on it.

“She’s not worth a stool at this table,” he said. “Let alone a banquet.”

He said it like he was talking about a stray mutt that wandered into the throne room. And maybe that’s how he saw her. A maid. A nameless girl. Someone who didn’t grow up with titles or a legacy stitched into her blood.

But I saw more.

And right in that moment, I forgot how to act like a king.

I moved before I realised I was even going to. My hand left my side, and the heat in my palm flared up like it had been waiting too long. The table trembled as I slammed into Hadrek’s chest.

One hit.

He didn’t scream.

Just flew.

The sound of his back slamming against the far stone wall made a crack so sharp it silenced the whole room. Dust rose from the ground. The room went still, every breath sucked out of it. Blood slid from the corner of Hadrek’s mouth as he slid down the wall, a groan catching at the edge of his throat. His robes were torn near the collar, the silver crest of his rank now darkened with spit and blood.

I didn’t look away.

Didn’t even blink.

The air had gone cold. So cold I could see the breath of the man beside me. My aura was leaking. Pouring. I knew it. But I didn’t care.

“Next time,” I said slowly, my voice heavier than usual, “I’ll aim lower.”

The words were quiet. But they burned.

I walked back to the table and stared at the rest of them. Their eyes avoided mine now. Every single one. The same men who used to speak freely, give counsel, and argue over borders and treaties, now sat like statues carved from fear.

“She doesn’t need your approval,” I continued, dragging each word. “She’s here. That’s enough.”

I could feel them swallowing. Some stiffened their backs like that would stop their fear from crawling. But I knew better.

I saw Elder Damar flick a glance toward Hadrek, still slumped by the wall. His hand twitched as if to rise—maybe to protest. Or maybe to help the old fool up. But he didn’t move.

No one did.

That was the moment they all knew something had changed.

The King had changed.

Because I never touched the Elders. Not even when they spoke out of turn. Not even when they pushed boundaries. I ruled with power, yes. But I gave them respect. For decades. Because they were chosen. Old blood. The roots of the kingdom.

But today, I broke that rule.

For her.

They knew that.

And it shook them.

I walked back to my chair and sat, slowly, like I wasn’t still raging inside. Like I wasn’t still hearing the words “she’s not worth a stool” ringing in my head.

I stared at the black marble surface of the table. My fingers curled once and then released.

“I won’t say this again,” I said. “You will show up. You will honour her. Or you will leave my counsel.”

Nobody answered.

Nobody dared.

Elder Morven, usually the first to speak, shifted his cloak like it had suddenly grown thorns. He cleared his throat once but said nothing. Across the table, Elder Rurik’s mouth opened just slightly before closing again. He nodded once. Just once. Then kept his head down.

Good.

I didn’t need their loyalty.

Just their silence.

I looked to my right where my Beta stood quietly, arms behind him, his expression unreadable.

“See to it,” I said.

He nodded and stepped out of the room.

I didn’t rise again. I just sat there, hands resting on the arms of the throne-like chair, letting the silence settle and stick.

No one would speak about what happened today. Not out loud. But they would whisper. In corners. In quiet halls. Behind locked doors. And those whispers would spread like smoke.

The King struck an Elder.

The King defended the girl.

The King is slipping.

Or maybe…

The King is bonding.

Let them wonder.

Let them watch.

Because I didn’t even know which one it was yet. All I knew was that something inside me shifted when she walked into that dining hall. When she sat down, when she signed that paper even though her hands were shaking.

She didn’t belong to them.

Not to anyone.

But I’d be damned if I let them decide what she was worth.